Closure for one or closure for none
by Airgead
Summary: RE-POSTED STORY. This story takes its life from the poignant little scene in ep 2.1, where Camille thinks her mother has set her up on a date with Richard. Things are Not Going Well for Richard, and life is about to take an unforseen turn. Rated M for later chapters. Disclaimer - I don't own the characters, BBC/Red Planet Pictures does.
1. Chapter 1

**Updated A/N: I have changed the title from "Closure" to "Closure for one or closure for none" after realising that MillionMoments previously published a story called Closure, to avoid confusion...there's enough confusion going on between Richard and Camille already! **

**A/N: Set post 2.1, this story stands apart from my earlier story, Under the Skin, but the two could be read as companion pieces.**

_Yes, it seems I've done it again. Put my foot in it somehow,_ Richard thinks, wincing as he hears the sharp click of Camille's fingers – a sure sign that he really has made an ass of himself. It irks him that his DS has taken it upon herself to correct all his _faux pas_, and yet, part of him really wants to know what he has done. _Well, I can rely on Camille to tell me, every time_. She stalks off out of the Honoré police station, stiff with anger, not even looking round to see if he is following. Richard sets his jaw and follows her around the back of the building, grateful that the nearby cells are currently unoccupied. He doesn't care to have an audience, criminal or not, for this particular set of revelations. As soon as he turns the corner and sees her standing there, waiting for him, he knows it's bad. Both hands are on her hips, one foot is tapping impatiently, and there is a dangerous gleam in her brown eyes. "Yes?" Richard ventures, hoping that she is going to be quick about this. _Doesn't she know I'm waiting for the Forensics lab on Guadeloupe to ring through those DNA swab results? _Camille glares at him, and he takes a step back. "No. This time, you tell me. Why do you think we are here?" Her usually lilting, accented English sounds hard and flat with anger.

Richard blinks in surprise and thinks back over their earlier discussion, before drawing a blank. He shrugs in response. He never knows what he's done wrong, it seems, until she tells him. Camille's look changes to one of disbelief, and then she snaps at him, "Richard Poole, you are unbelievable. How is it possible for you to see the tiniest details in a murder investigation, and yet be so blind to normal social conventions? Surely even you must know that what you said in there was inexcusably rude. How could you speak to me like that in front of the others? Do you know what it is you were implying?!" _Ah, light dawns_. Richard hunts about unsuccessfully for an appropriate response, before taking up his usual defensive stance of going on the attack. "Well how was I to know that the subject of your date last night was suddenly off limits? You seemed keen enough to talk about it yesterday!" She stares at him for a beat, before speaking in a low, tightly controlled voice that fills him with dread. "For future reference, when I say I don't want to talk about it, I mean it. It doesn't mean that you get to take cheap shots at me." Seeing the puzzlement in his eyes, she rolls hers in annoyance and explains curtly, "Women don't like it when men ogle them and then make comparisons to other women. And for your information, I don't care what who this Lucy is, I don't care if you did spend the night with her, I don't want to hear about it! What is the matter with you, hey?"

A deep blush has suffused her DI's face, creeping up from his buttoned-down collar to his neatly trimmed hairline, as an extraordinary look passes over his face. He appears to be lost for words. Camille folds her arms, shifts her stance slightly, tilts her chin out, and settles in to wait. _This had better be good_, she tells him mentally, _you had better be vraiment désolé_,_ or I will finally lose all patience with you, you rude, inconsiderate, pompous, ridiculous man!_ In the face of such an aggressive display, Richard makes a couple of false starts, stuttering and halting, before he manages to get a coherent sentence out. "Firstly, I do not ogle you, it would be both unprofessional and inappropriate of me, and I take offence at the suggestion. Secondly, I asked about your date because you are constantly telling me to take an interest in my colleagues' lives. If I expressed myself poorly, then I apologise for that, but not for making what was intended as a perfectly innocent enquiry. Thirdly, Lucy is my telescope. If you must know, I've had her since I was fourteen. I just had her shipped over, and after I went home from babysitting for Fidel and Juliet, I spent the rest of the evening stargazing, as it's about the only thing I actually enjoy doing here. So, have I explained myself sufficiently?" he replies, his tone acerbic, but his eyes are anxious and uncertain; he knows he is on shaky ground, and he still doesn't fully comprehend what Camille is so upset about.

After a long minute of silence, Camille, realising he has nothing further to say, turns her back on him and walks away, wordlessly and fast. Suddenly she whips round and says in a voice he has never heard her use, "You know what, Richard? I'm through with this. I'm done," and she leaves him standing there, staring after her, trying to work out what she means. _She's still angry,_ he realises, _but I don't know what else she wants from me._ The idea of sitting in the office, surrounded by his team, with a hostile and unhappy silence emanating from Camille, does not appeal. Instead Richard sinks onto the bench on the back veranda, staring at the worn floorboards, cradling his aching head between his hands. Camille's final question, _what is the matter with you?_ burns in his mind. _That's the 64,000 pound one, all right_, he admits. The one he has never been able to answer. _Whatever's the matter with Richard Poole, he's never been fun, he's never been cool_…he dismisses AA Milne and closes his eyes, thinking back.

He gets as far as the previous evening, and the worrying and perturbing sensations he experienced when he saw Camille approaching his table, dressed to kill and smiling expectantly at him. It was like his ultimate dream and his worst nightmare colliding, and if that thought wasn't enough to alarm him, he could have sworn that just for a moment, Camille seemed to be genuine in her assumption that her mother had set up a date for them, before he realised that she must be joking (not a very funny joke, as far as he was concerned) and pointed her in the right direction, towards a tall, impossibly handsome young man a couple of tables away. He had thought that she was just sharpening her seduction skills before moving onto the real quarry for the night. The worrying part was that it would have worked, if she had continued to sit smiling across the table from him, her attention focused on him, looking luminously beautiful in the soft Caribbean night, seemingly happy to be there. But he knows how unlikely, if not downright impossible that would be, festival of Erzulie or no, and is enormously relieved that he took defensive action just in time to send her on her way, and that Fidel's arrival allowed him to escape from an increasingly agonising scenario. As he paused on his way out of the courtyard, forcing himself to watch as Camille met her date, he saw her kiss the other man lightly on both cheeks in the French manner of greeting, and the queer, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach was enough to tell him that it had been a narrow miss.

Richard had tried to read a book at Fidel's (Rosie, blessedly, slept soundly until her parents' return, as he had been promised she would), before returning, wide awake and very unhappy, to his little beachside bungalow. Although he made a fuss about everything to do with the island, in truth, he enjoyed these rare nights when a slight breeze stirred the palms, and the smell of ozone from the surf out front charged the air with an electric tang (but he would no more have admitted this out loud, than he would have run naked through Waterloo station at rush hour). In a melancholy state of mind, he drank a couple of bottles of the local beer while scanning the skies with Lucy-the-telescope, searching the stars in a familiar and soothing pattern. _Nothing unusual out there tonight_; he wished he could fly away to one of those distant constellations, away from Saint-Marie, from his life here, and most of all, far, far away from Camille Bordey.

In all his life, he has never met anyone so irritating, so frustrating, so French…nor so intuitive, so beautiful, or so vivacious. When she sat down at his table, smiling brightly, wearing that amazing red dress, it had taken all of his self-control not to go along with her light-hearted role-playing. He had so much wanted to believe that she was there for him, but her mother had already made sure he knew that Camille would be enjoying a date with an unfeasibly good-looking young man, as Richard headed out to the outdoor patio with his book and his tea. There had been a certain hardness of eye there as she had spoken with him, he felt. Catherine Bordey didn't really like Camille socialising primarily with her colleagues – she had said so, more than once. "Fidel is married, Dwayne is a player, and who else is there? _Non, non, _she needs to make some other friends, meet different people", she had often been heard to observe to her regular patrons, apparently oblivious to Richard's presence in the coolest corner, huddled behind a week-old _Times_ with a pot of (black) tea. Catherine never mentioned him in her list of Camille's colleagues. _And why would she_, _seeing as I manage to upset or insult her nearly every time I see her_. Small wonder, then, that Catherine didn't think much of him, much less consider him to be someone who belonged in Camille's social circle other than in the role of Awkward and Annoying (_un Anglais!)_ Boss.

_Truth be told, I don't think much of me, either_, Richard muses as he stares at the grey, splintering wood of the veranda. _In London, I'm buried amongst nine million other human beings, and I live my sad little life without anyone actually noticing me, most of the time. If they do notice, it's never a good thing. Like a chameleon, I understand the importance of camouflage, of staying hidden, of keeping a low profile. Maybe that's why I don't mind Harry-the-lizard hanging around the house. That, and it does help keep the bugs down…funny, I'd far rather think about huge bloodthirsty tropical bugs, or pythons, or that giant centipede I found in the shower this morning, than delve into the bottomless pit of my own failures and inadequacies…why was I ever sent to this wretched place? _A slim brown foot suddenly appears in his field of vision, then another. His heart begins to race. _She's back, all is forgiven!_ His glance flickers upwards, sure that she has come to tell him to stop sulking and come back inside. Before he can speak or get a proper look at her face, Camille informs him in cool tones that the forensic lab is on the phone, and would he be so good as to step inside and take the call, as she was not his secretary, but a decorated Detective Sergeant? She turns on her heel before he can reprimand her for her highly inappropriate attitude, walking off with a sharp little jerk in her step that tells him exactly where he stands_. Looks like I'm still in the doghouse, then. I will never, ever, understand either women in general, or this one in particular. _Sighing, he heaves himself off the bench and follows her, his shoulders tense with apprehension. Camille deliberately presents her back to him as he walks in, and they speak no more that afternoon.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks to fanficfan71 and MillionMoments for their kind reviews of Chapter 1 (and for MillionMoments' graciousness in not pointing out this story had the same title as one of their own works - which I have now rectified)**

By six o'clock, Richard has had enough of the silent treatment. He can't get out of the station fast enough, actually hailing one of the island's extortionately overpriced taxis instead, so great is his need to get away. He directs the driver to take him straight home, and doesn't even quibble at the ridiculous price. Once home, he moves methodically around the shack, shuttering all the windows and locking himself in. He is in no mood for visitors this evening. Once he is certain that there is no aperture ajar to admit any light, lizards (_sorry, mate_) or locals, he shucks his suit, takes a long shower, and pulls on his pyjamas. Then he lies on his bed in the dark, staring at the rafters and again wishing desperately he was back home. Richard is sick of the island, sick of being stuck on it at the Commissioner's whim, sick of Camille's unpredictable moods, sick of feeling sick of it all.

_Most of all, I'm sick of myself_, he thinks grimly, _why can't I just be like all those other sods out there, the ones which everything comes naturally to. The ones like Doug Anderson, and his cronies, back at the Met, down the pub each lunchtime and going out for a few drinks after work, bonding over shared interests in football and cars and women, even some of the married ones not averse to trying to pull if they thought could get away with it, their prowess with the opposite sex the subject of good-natured ribbing the next day._ While he, Richard, was left sitting by himself in a deserted office, going over old case files in an awkward attempt to look busy. He was constantly the object of his colleagues' ridicule and scorn, and he had long suspected the entire division of devising elaborate excuses to avoid the stigma of being partnered with him. He knew, too, that he lacked the verbal and physical weaponry needed to stand up for himself. When he was bullied at school, his response had been to retreat far inside his head, becoming a too-pale, too-quiet boy who never made eye contact, who spent lunch break hiding in the library stacks, who avoided any interaction with his peers, preferring to talk only to the teachers, library staff, or even the Headmaster's hugely fat and friendly chocolate Labrador, Conker. His memories from that time are grey-tinted with misery, unlike the usual brilliant Technicolour in which most of his recollections are replayed.

Richard does vividly remember begging his parents to be allowed to stay at home, on his first exeat from boarding school, before realising that his father was looking at him with that mixture of annoyance and disappointment again, and that his mother's attention had wandered back to the fashion pages of the glossy magazine she had been flicking through when he had come to them, tear-stained and desperate on the Sunday night before he was due to return, to plead his case. He had never asked again. They just weren't that interested in him, once it became apparent that he was turning out to be a socially awkward, rather plain child who developed obsessive fixations on things like the history of Roman Britain, or the tiny fossils he found amongst the pebbles at the beach on their yearly caravanning holidays. He lacked his father's charm and his mother's beauty, indeed only his green eyes had come from her; even then, they were a pale imitation of her deep emerald ones. Everything else was, well, just Richard, as his mother used to say in a too-bright, brittle tone of voice. He breathes out slowly, a long exhalation of frustration and sadness, closing his eyes, seeing a thousand different instances, spooling across the movie screen of his mind (although when working a case, he likes to imagine it is the biggest whiteboard in existence, instead), of his parents' endless disappointment in him. He feels that there should be some sort of statute of limitation on this sort of thing, but no, apparently not.

Suddenly, he hears a vehicle pull up some way off, and a door slams, followed by rapid footsteps on the veranda, and then his front door reverberates with loud knocking. _Go away_, he wills silently, _and leave me the hell alone_. Richard lies in the dark and holds his breath until the visitor retreats and he hears the familiar sound of the police Land Rover's engine roaring into life, before the vehicle departs at speed. _Too much speed_, he notes. _Camille_. And the images that flood into his mind at the thought of her name threaten to overwhelm him. Closing his eyes, he counts his heartbeats until they return to a resting rate, trying to calm himself as he used to do at school when he would hide from the tormenting, taunting boys who picked on him simply for being different. He has been hiding for most of his life, it seems, and now he is hiding from the one person whom he had begun to hope, with the tiniest of hopes, might actually see him in a different light. Again he despairs of himself, of his lack of courage, before turning his thoughts back to Camille.

She had been so…strange this afternoon, so not-Camille, with her distant attitude and complete lack of interest in what he had to say, other than professionally. It had been like interacting with an automaton. She had reacted to nothing, snapped her fingers at nothing, hadn't seemed to notice that he was even in the room. _Fine_, he had thought at first, and busied himself with his forensics reports_. Blissful silence, just what I have been wishing for all these months_. Fidel and Dwayne had stuck it out gamely in the strained atmosphere for an hour, before one decided to walk the beat in the marketplace, and the other recalled he had to check up on a report of an illegal rum distilling operation in the mountains at the other end of the island, and roared off on his beloved Royal Enfield.

Camille had been completely absorbed by whatever she was looking at on her computer screen, and a couple more hours had passed in silence. Richard normally enjoyed working in the office with Camille and the others (_not that I would ever admit it_), but today something felt very wrong, and he could not just shake off her temporary moodiness as he had done many times before. It was as if the Camille he knew had disappeared and a stranger wearing her face was sitting opposite him. That idea made him feel very queasy indeed, so he had turned his attention to a pile of SOCO results from their latest case, cross-referencing them with the forensics lab's findings, and still the silence had continued, more oppressive than the appalling heat and humidity could ever be. He had taken no satisfaction from analysing and sifting through the two piles of data, a task he usually enjoyed as he began to see the connections between seemingly unrelated pieces of information, building the case, bringing it all together. When he had finally gotten up to leave, moving quietly so as not to invoke her ire, Camille had barely acknowledged his hesitant "Well, erm, good night, then", merely making a disinterested "Mm-hmm" noise low in her throat, eyes still fixed on her monitor. Usually she would have offered to drive him home, or perhaps the team would have gone down to her mother's place for a drink (_with or without me_, he noted despondently) but tonight she might as well have been miles away. As he had trotted down the station steps to look for a cab, he heard her voice speaking rapid-fire French, too fast for him to follow, and surmised that she was on the phone to someone. _Her mother, probably,_ he had thought at the time, rolling his eyes, _perfect._

As the sun drops beyond the horizon, and the blazing heat of the day transmutes into the unpleasant mugginess of a tropical night, Richard can no longer bear the humidity and stuffiness caused by shutting out the evening air. Deciding that the likelihood of unannounced visitors dropping by at this late hour is infinitesimal, he gets up to unlatch the shutters, then swings open the double (he refused to call them French) patio doors, and an envelope wedged between them flutters to the floor as he does so. His heart misses a beat as he bends to pick it up, recognising Camille's small, elegant handwriting, addressing the envelope to Detective Inspector R. Poole. He frowns, slitting the envelope open with the silver penknife he keeps on his desk, and removes a single sheet of paper with a few words typed on it. "Detective Inspector Poole, I hereby notify you that I have requested a leave of absence which has been approved by the Commissioner, Royal Saint-Marie Constabulary, for an indefinite period, commencing immediately. Signed, Detective Sergeant Camille Bordey", he reads. It is neat, it is professional, and it fills him with fear. He re-reads it, looks in the envelope to see if she has included anything else (she hasn't) and picks up the phone, punching in a local number with fingers that tremble.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: just a shortish chapter to keep things angsty...thanks to those who are reading, reviewing, following or otherwise enjoying this fic!**

The laid-back sounds of reggae, mingled with the noises of happy people enjoying themselves, come down the line loud and clear, as Catherine answers the phone in her unmistakable voice. "_Oui,_ La Kaz" she purrs, before holding the instrument away from her ear as a torrent of stressed-sounding English assaults her. She puts the receiver down carefully, serves a couple of locals at the bar, picks up glasses from several nearby tables, then judges it time to retrieve the handset. He is still speaking loudly, so she cuts across him. "She's gone, Richard." Catherine listens, unsurprised, to the sudden silence at his end, before continuing, "She left on the last flight to Paris tonight. No, I don't know when she will be back, Camille didn't say. Perhaps if you come down here, I can explain it better?" and then she hears a sharp click as the call disconnects. Richard is on his way.

Fifteen minutes later, Catherine mixes herself a strong rum and lime cocktail and pulls a pint of beer, then carries both drinks to the quietest corner of the patio. "So, let's talk," she invites the very anxious and nervous-looking Englishman, perched on the edge of a wicker chair. As soon as she is seated, Richard repeats his earlier question, "What do you mean, she's gone back to Paris?" Catherine studies him for a moment, trying to understand exactly what her daughter sees in this strange, awkward Englishman, and failing. She looks him in the eye, but he is unable to hold her gaze, flinching away within seconds. She knows this is because he is pathologically shy, but tonight Catherine's thoughts are all for her daughter, and so she steels herself to be brutal, a lioness defending her cub.

Finally, she speaks, her tone direct. "I mean exactly that. Camille had a life in Paris, before her undercover assignment, and she has gone back to that life." Richard's eyes flick up to meet hers, surprise evident in his expression, and his mouth drops open soundlessly. Such an idea has never occurred to him, Catherine can tell. This realisation angers her, and she laughs mirthlessly at his reaction. "Camille had friends, an apartment, even a lover there, why would she not return? She loves Paris, she has a long-standing offer of work with the Sûreté, a chance to build a brilliant career. She would not even be here, except that you arrested her…she was never meant to stay! There's nothing here for her except a dead-end job, and as for me, I can fly to France whenever I need to see her. I want her to have a happy life, Richard, and she's very unhappy here."

Catherine sits back in her chair and watches the Englishman as he opens and shuts his mouth a couple of times, his eyes wide with shock, his hands actually trembling slightly. After Richard's initial glance up at her, he looks back down fixedly at his hands, clasping them in his lap to stop the trembling. He keeps his eyes down as he asks hesitantly, "Did...did she say why she was unhappy? She's always very…professional at work, very helpful. I couldn't do without her, really…" His nervous little speech is cut off as Catherine slams her glass down onto the table with a bang. "You can't do without her, maybe, but she can do without you! She's capable of so much more than just being your subordinate. She deserves so much more in her life, Richard. So much more than being 'professional' or 'helpful', and I hope that you will understand when I say, so much more, too, than acting as a go-between for you and the rest of the world." Catherine gives him a long, level look, challenging him to say anything, her face set in hard lines. Richard can't meet her eyes; his shoulders hunch defensively and he seems to shrink into himself. Finally, he says in a voice he barely recognises as his own, "I…I had better go, I think. Goodnight", and getting up, he fumbles some money onto the table and leaves, stumbling blindly through the swaying dancers on the terrace, past the tables inside where groups of friends sit laughing, and out into the night.

Catherine watches him leave as she gathers their glasses (his, untouched), then heads back inside. She leaves his money on the table with a philosophical shrug. She doesn't think she has heard the last of this, but whatever Richard might say to her, once he has recovered from the shock of hearing so many unexpected revelations at once, Catherine is not going to be swayed. She watched Camille pack only a few hours ago, her face expressionless, her shoulders tense, every movement precise and utterly devoid of her usual easy grace, and her daughter's uncharacteristic silence had worried Catherine far more than all the tirades and outbursts of the last year put together.

After making a couple of very private phone calls following her boss's departure, Camille had gone straight home from work that afternoon, dragged her battered old travel bag from beneath the bed, and quickly and efficiently packed all her cold-weather clothes. Catherine, about to return to La Kaz for the evening's work, had soon gotten the story out of her, although in truth she was not all that surprised. For nearly a year, she had watched her bright, beautiful, kind-hearted daughter become more and more infatuated with a man seemingly incapable of responding to her attentions, and she had known it could only end in heartbreak. Catherine was convinced that not even Erzulie could intervene where Richard Poole was concerned, and she told her daughter so in no uncertain terms. Afterwards, she had hugged Camille for a long time, and then had helped her finish packing before driving her to the airport in their little old Citroën. Catherine was going to miss her only child fiercely, but she knew this separation was necessary, and she would endure anything, do anything, to ensure Camille's happiness.

_It's only what any mother would do_, she tells herself, while the memory of the Englishman stumbling away, his shoulders bowed and head down, keeps playing on her mind, even as she laughs and jokes with her customers. _He'll get over it._ And then another image comes to her, quite unbidden. The look on Richard's face, thinking himself unobserved, as he watched Camille greet her date last night. Catherine had seen him pause on his way out of the bar, and she had slipped silently to the doorway opposite, wanting to be on hand if he decided to make a nuisance of himself. He hadn't; instead, he had turned to watch Camille, dazzling in her best dress, walking away from him, and across his rather plain face had flitted deep wistfulness, loneliness and regret in such rapid succession that had she not been watching closely, she would have missed it altogether. Catherine had moved away when she saw him leave, and had thought of it no more, until now, when she had seen the very same look in his eyes, now mingled with confusion, hurt, and rejection. _C'est la vie, _she finally tells herself, but the words have never sounded less convincing.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Yes, more angst - sometimes (actually, most of the time) the only way out is through. And Richard is going through it. Thanks to all who are sticking with the story - it gets pretty deep in this chapter.**

Richard lurches out of La Kaz and for the third time that day, hails a cab. The driver, André, doesn't even need to ask where to – _oh, man, it's that odd English policeman, again…is he drunk so soon? _he wonders, before seeing the look on his fare's face. André sets off for the foreign officers' quarters without starting up his usual good-natured banter, out of respect for the silent, sad man slumped in the back seat. _He looks bad, like there's been a death, or something…poor bugger._

Richard doesn't really remember arriving home, paying the cabbie, or even changing out of his hastily donned suit and back into pyjamas, but he must have done all three, because he is now sitting in his usual chair, staring out at the relentless rise and fall of waves upon the beach, the water inky in the light of a waning moon. He isn't seeing any of it though; his mind's eye is focused on the last image he has of Camille, sitting behind her computer, refusing to look at him as he said good-night, and his chest feels so tight at the memory that he wonders dully if he is having some sort of cardiac event. _That would be infinitely easier to cope with than whatever this is, this sensation of a great weight crushing me from all sides, this inability to think straight, to analyse, to do what I do best._ The little lizard which he has come to feel responsible for is nowhere in evidence tonight, although Richard would welcome a distraction from the turmoil of thoughts, words and images which refuse to be pinned down or put into neat little boxes.

Again and again, his overwrought brain comes to the same conclusion regarding Camille's sudden departure, and again and again he desperately rejects it, for once ignoring his own maxim of "when everything else has been disproved, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth." This is a truth he is not eager to embrace, in fact it terrifies him. Catherine's words torment him. He is sure she is right about everything. He knows that there is no room for advancement in the tiny local police force for someone of Camille's ability; he knows that she had a successful career in France long before he ever heard of Sainte-Marie, and of course she would have friends and…_others_…there. She is too outgoing, too gregarious, too bloody full of _joie de vivre_, not to be always at the centre of things, surrounded by love and happiness. He has been basking shyly in her warmth for months now, from the safe distance of his self-imposed solitude, but even he can see what a force of nature Camille is, and how passionately she loves life.

Camille is everything, in short, that he is not. Of course she would want to transfer back to Paris, back to the glittering City of Light, back to friends (_and others_), and a world of career opportunities. He has been very selfish to expect her to be content with…_how did Catherine put it_…_acting as a go-between for him and the rest of the world._ Richard is a scrupulously honest man, and he knows he should be happy that his colleague is making the most of her opportunities in life, but instead he feels as if the sun has fallen from his personal sky. _What is the matter with me_, he wonders, but the truth is that he knows exactly what the problem is; he is in love with his at-least-ten-years-younger, French, stunningly beautiful, fiercely independent and temperamental, Detective Sergeant. It is not a thought that fills him with joy, but with great fear.

Nothing in Richard's rigidly controlled, solitary existence thus far has prepared him for the shockingly physical reality of sexual attraction, or the sudden, screaming tyranny of his body's demands, too long repressed and denied. For his entire adult life, Richard has channelled what he had always thought of as his excess energy into his work, solving the puzzles no-one else wanted, working double shifts, compulsive and obsessive and totally focused on getting a result. He no longer finds any respite at work, where every moment is filled with Camille; and when he is alone at night, the loneliness is almost easier to bear than the distressingly vivid images and memories that tumble though his mind.

Richard can hardly bring himself to think about it, but he knows that much of his present agony stems from the enormous embarrassment, anxiety and shame he feels at his virginal state. At twenty, he was too paralysed by shyness to ask girls out; by thirty, he had decided there were no nice women left; and by forty, he had resigned himself to his lonely life of quiet desperation. He feels like the punch-line of a very unfunny joke. He knows that he's the sort of nerdy, nervy loser that Hollywood makes films of unbearable cruelty about, unable even to talk to women in a social setting…_and apparently, I'm not much better when working with them_… much less, in his Met colleagues' parlance, "pull". The veteran of too many crime scenes, Richard has seen more than enough of the sordid, exploitative, abusive side of human relationships; enough to convince him that the safest option was to avoid them altogether, despite the resulting isolation. Above all, the inherent vulnerability involved fills him with terror; after all, he has spent a lifetime building walls to keep others out, until he has himself become part of the wall, rigid, inflexible, and trapped by his own fear.

_My upbringing didn't give me much cause for hope in the human race, either_, he reflects. _I wouldn't have wished it on my worst enemy. _The only child of self-absorbed parents, he had been packed off to boarding school as soon as he was old enough to go. From that point on, his chief nurturing influences had been Sister Benedict, the sadistic nun in charge of his House, with her invasive personal spot-checks and heavy-handed way with a slipper, and at the other end of the scale, Conker and Laddie, the dogs he knew best growing up. Conker was the school's dog, and therefore not really his, but Laddie had been his best friend, although he belonged to his grandparents on his father's side.

Laddie had been an Irish Setter in full glory, with a rich red, feathery coat, a tail that was rarely still, and kind eyes, and he was the only creature in Richard's life whom he felt certain had loved him unconditionally. Laddie was always pleased to see him at half-term, for Richard lavished attention and affection on him, brushing his silky coat until it gleamed, taking him for extra walks, and spending his meagre allowance on dog treats. Richard had told Laddie everything, lying in the grass with his head pillowed on the big dog, listening to him pant companionably. Laddie knew when Richard was sad or lonely, and he would poke his slender muzzle into the boy's hand, nudging him until Richard was forced to take notice, watching him anxiously with those soft brown eyes until he smiled or laughed.

The dog had been far and away the best thing in the young Richard's life, and the day his grandfather had taken him to the woodshed and shown him the limp, broken body of the dog, one hind leg nearly detached altogether where the wheel of the milk van had hit him, Richard had rushed from the shed and been violently ill, crumpling to the ground as he dry-heaved and retched until only the bitterness of bile remained. His grandfather emerged from the shed carrying Laddie, and without a word, had opened the little iron door to the old-fashioned brick incinerator and stuffed the dog's body inside, along with a few spadesful of grass clippings and hedge trimmings. Then he had lit the furnace, and gone back inside the house, leaving Richard still on his hands and knees, heartsick at the casual, callous way that his best friend had been disposed of like so much rubbish. He would have buried the dog in their favourite spot in the garden, would have dug the grave with his bare hands if need be. Instead, Richard had watched as the fine ash had begun to rise from the incinerator's cone-shaped chimney. He had wept for Laddie then, and for the coldness and cruelty of the world, but most of all, he had wept for himself. _Who will be my friend now?_

On that day, Richard had laid the foundations of the fortress wall around his heart, walls that no-one had ever bothered to broach, until he met Camille. Through sheer stubbornness and force of personality, she has succeeded in making tiny chinks in his defences, each one admitting a ray of light into his soul, drawing him towards her like the proverbial moth to flame. And like a moth, he fears singeing his wings and falling, fluttering, into the all-consuming fire of passion.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Richard isn't off the hook yet...thanks to all those readers who are biting their nails in anxiety for him!**

As dawn approaches, Richard wearily takes himself off to bed, sheer exhaustion finally winning out over his obsessive need to make sense of the events of the last day. Lying in the clammy sheets, his pyjamas twisting around him as he tosses and turns in the hot, airless room, he falls into an uneasy sleep, broken by disturbing dreams. He sees Laddie, once more being interred into the incinerator, despite his cries of protest, and then Camille appears out of nowhere, striding past the spot where Richard crouches in the grass, and tries to pull the dog away from his grandfather, shouting, "But he's alive! You can't do this to a living creature! It's cruel!" and suddenly Richard understands that she means him, that she is trying to rescue him, and he tries to struggle up from the ground, only for her to look at him and say, "No, my mistake. He's long dead, this one, he just doesn't know it", with a moue of disgust, as if smelling something rotten, and then Catherine is there, too, in the mysterious way that people have of just appearing in dreams; she tells Richard that he had better go back to building his walls, because they are all he has now in the world, and looking down to see why his feet won't move, he finds that his feet and legs have taken root in the ground, and that on either side of him, a coursework of heavy stones is rising like the curtain wall of a Norman castle... Camille laughs at the panic and fear in his face at the realisation that he is trapped, cruel laughter which shifts into the fierce, high-pitched cry of a bird of prey, as she transforms into a falcon, and soars off into the sky; he wakes sobbing from that dream.

Eventually, Richard falls asleep again, and this time he dreams that he is being slowly choked by a huge python which has wrapped itself around him and is slowly, inexorably, squeezing out his life. At first he struggles, then, realising that the reptile is tightening its hold the more he fights it, he lies still and goes limp, and the snake turns its head towards him to begin the slow process of consuming him whole, he screams, for the snake's face is his own. He wakes in a sweat and shaking.

Finally, he dreams that he is standing alone on a motionless travelator in an airport; the conveyor next to him is working as it should, moving families and couples and groups of friends along past him, all talking and laughing and enjoying each other's company, a happy assemblage of humanity, but none of them acknowledge or engage him, although they can all see his distress at being stuck on a broken-down travelator by himself. He becomes aware that Camille is also on the other travelator, moving towards him, and frantically tries to get her attention, calling her name, waving his arms and jumping up and down in a desperate bid for her to notice him, but when she draws level, she looks right through him and then is gone, disappearing into the crowds of people moving together to their various destinations. He wakes with a heart as heavy as lead, before utter enervation drags him down into the unconsciousness that lies beyond dreams, as the sun begins to rise out of the sea.

When he comes around again, it is to the sound of Fidel's voice calling his name, and his sleep-fogged brain slowly registers three things simultaneously: it is hotter than Hades in the shack, it is hours later than his usual waking time, and there is absolutely no point in getting out of bed, because Camille is half a world away. He rolls over and tries to ignore the young man's voice as Fidel, worried, continues to call out. "Sir, sir. Are you alright? Chief, are you coming to work today?" Richard finally can take no more, and roars out "NO! Now bugger off!" He hears footsteps retreating and the Land Rover departing. _Good_, he thinks, _leave me alone, I don't care if all the assorted villains of the Caribbean descend on Saint-Marie, I'm off duty._ He stares at the rafters of the shack until he falls asleep again, drugged by the heat and airlessness of the closed-up room.

When next he wakes, it is to find the Commissioner standing at the end of his bed, kitted out in full dress uniform as usual, regarding him with a jaundiced eye. Richard shoots bolt upright in shock, nearly falling out of bed as he gasps for air and gropes for words to express his outrage at this invasion, then becomes aware that his superior officer is taking in his appearance with something like amusement. _I suppose I am quite a sight_, he thinks, _unshaven, sweaty and sleep-ravaged, and in striped pyjamas from neck to ankles._ The Commissioner turns his back to give Richard a chance to extricate himself from bed unobserved, and he seizes the opportunity to scuttle into his minute bathroom. "You should sleep naked, in this heat. I do." he hears the Commissioner rumble after him as he closes the bathroom door. He leans his forehead against the door for a moment, eyes closed as he tries, unsuccessfully, to erase the image his boss's words have conjured up. He hadn't minded it when Camille had volunteered that particular piece of personal information, not one bit, once he had recovered from the shock of hearing her say it. He doesn't think he will ever get used to her directness, or her lack of prudish inhibition. _Oh, Camille…_Turning on only the cold tap in the shower, Richard steps under the feeble splutter of water, teeth gritted.

Fifteen minutes later, he is showered, shaved, dressed, and sitting opposite the Commissioner in his living room, waiting for his boss to speak. The Commissioner's gaze, which has been fixed somewhere on the middle horizon since Richard joined him, finally shifts to Richard, and out of habit, his shoulders hunch and he drops his gaze. "Well?" the Commissioner enquires mildly. The hairs on the back of Richard's neck prickle. A good bollocking, a full-on old-fashioned dressing-down, would be preferable to this avuncular tone. "I realise I should have called in, and I apologise for any inconvenience…I wasn't myself, earlier…" Richard registers the look of barely-contained annoyance on his boss's face, and stops. The Commissioner leans back in his armchair, and after a long pause, he speaks. "I, too, have had a difficult few days. First, my Detective Sergeant tells me she must take a leave of absence immediately, for urgent personal reasons she cannot disclose, and then my Detective Inspector goes absent without leave, so Fidel and Dwayne are left in charge, God help us all, and when I come here to see what has become of my DI, I find him in his pyjamas at three p.m., in bed in an airless room, in over one hundred degrees of heat. What I am I to make of this? What am I to do?" "Send me home, and put me out of my misery." The words are out before Richard has a chance to think about it, but once he has spoken them, he realises how true they are. He waits, looking at the floor, for what seems like an eternity.

Finally, the Commissioner says "Yes, I think so, too", and Richard's head snaps up in surprise. For nearly a year, he has campaigned for this, and now it comes, just like that? "Well, Sir, I…I must say that it's about time, I mean, I never intended to stay, Saint-Marie was never really in my career plan…"Richard's surprised babbling dwindles off as the Commissioner holds up a hand. "Would you like to know why I extended your secondment in the first place?" Richard blinks in confusion at the sudden change in tack, and his boss continues on with, "Because your Super in London insisted I find a way to keep you here; his actual words were 'if I never see that miserable, pedantic, uptight little git again, it'll be too soon'. Yes, those were his words. Now, I could see that you were a fine police officer, but not much of a human being. Not even the organisation you had worked for all your life wanted you back. I thought if you had an opportunity to work with some really fine human beings who just happened to also be police officers, everyone would benefit, but now I can see I was wrong, and I have lost the finest detective sergeant the island has ever produced. I have had enough, DI Poole, of your tics, your quirks, your peculiarities – whatever they are, I have had enough, and so has Saint-Marie. I'll arrange for your transfer back to the UK immediately." In his wound-up emotional state, running on too little sleep and burdened with too much heartache, Richard doesn't know what to say, or how to begin to express his astonishment, hurt and chagrin at the Commissioner's extraordinary statement, so he settles for an uncertain "Ermm, right. Good. Thank you, Sir" as the Commissioner stands up, preparatory to leaving, and Richard mirrors the movement. "Oh, and one more thing," his boss tells him as he steps off the veranda, "You're on leave as of now, until you fly out. I've arranged for a team of relief staff to come across from Basse-Terre tonight. So you will finally be able to enjoy the island, with nothing to distract you from the sun, sea, and sand!" And chuckling sardonically, the Commissioner takes his leave.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: thanks to everyone who is continuing to read and review – it means a lot! And for those who have begun to suspect that I have it in for Richard, I really don't. It's just that he is so much a part of the wall he has built up over a lifetime, it's going to take some carefully placed, high-grade explosives to bring about change. The fuse is about to be lit…**

Richard stares after the Commissioner's broad, retreating back, speechless, then sinks back into his chair and buries his face in his hands, overcome by the events of the last twenty-four hours. He doesn't notice the little green lizard as it runs up the doorframe, nor the three chickens which meander inside, emboldened by his complete stillness and silence. Instead, he is seeing scenes from his life in London, scenes which don't fill him with the happiness he would have expected such familiar memories to bring.

His desk in the Met, located in an obscure corner well away from the rest of the division; sitting by himself in the White Hart, miserable after yet another bad day at work; walking alone along the Thames Embankment on a rare day off; waking up in his own bed, not a chicken or lizard (or beautiful, infuriating DS) in sight. Richard has longed for this life, been homesick beyond belief to return to it, dreamt about it, talked about it incessantly to the annoyance of most of the island, but now he can't seem to remember exactly what was so marvellous about it, anyway. He had been derided and disliked at work, achingly lonely at home, avoided by his neighbours wherever possible, and largely forgotten by his parents unless they wanted something from him. He had felt as if he had been an extra puzzle piece in the jigsaw of life, not quite fitting in or belonging anywhere.

And then had come the news of Charlie Hulme's death, and everything else which had followed. Richard closes his eyes, recalling in precise detail the events of that fateful day…

_He is sitting alone in the deserted office, working on case notes; everyone else has gone out for a long lunch to celebrate someone's birthday, or promotion, or some damn thing which he hasn't been invited to, yet again. Not that he cares; he can hardly stand to be in the same room with them in a professional context, much less in a social setting. Or so he keeps telling himself, as he wades through the morass of paperwork that has been dumped on his desk by his so-called colleagues, on their way out the door to the pub. Richard has already eaten lunch at his desk – he brings a roast beef sandwich, most days – and he is busily, if irritably, engaged in sorting out the mess in his in-tray, putting similar types of forms together to complete at the same time, matching paperwork to cases in various stages of progress, when he hears the heavy tread of Detective Chief Superintendent Linton, his Divisional commander, behind him. _

"_A word, Poole, if you don't mind", Linton grates out, in his gravelly, too-much-whisky-and-too-many-cigarettes voice, and Richard spins around in his chair to find the man looming over him in a most disconcerting manner. He has always felt intimidated by physical proximity – thanks to painful lessons learned at the hands of the bigger boys at his boarding school – and he feels panic starting to rise. The DCI is a bigger man than Richard, and he seems to have no sense of personal space, standing uncomfortably close behind Richard's chair, trapping him against the desk. He tries to get to his feet, but Linton waves him back down again, and regards him with an inquisitorial eye. "Have you got a current passport, Poole?" is the next, surprising question. "Errm, y…yes, I do, I had to get it when my parents wanted me to drive them around Ireland two years ago, only they ended up cancelling the trip…" Richard knows he's wittering; he can see Linton's disinterest and boredom, but he is feeling unaccountably nervous at this line of questioning. "Right, well, time you got a stamp in it then, wouldn't you say? One of our own's been murdered, a DI on secondment to some godforsaken speck of an island in the Caribbean, name of Hulme." Seeing Richard's baffled look, Linton clarifies with," Hulme is the officer. The island is called Saint-Marie. Somewhere in the Lesser Antilles, I think. Anyway, they want a senior officer from the Met to lead the investigation. You're the man on hand, it would seem, so if I were you I'd get home, get packed, and get to Heathrow on the double. You, Poole, are going on a little trip." _

And with those words, his erstwhile boss had strolled away, grinning to himself, and Richard's life had changed in an instant. Just like that, all the years of routines and rituals which had filled his days – the weekly trip to the White Hart on a Friday night, the solo trips to the cinema once a month, putting the bins out on a Tuesday night – it's all gone, and instead he finds himself, dazed, bemused, confused and rightfully indignant, in a chaotic place peopled by even more chaotic citizens. Saint-Marie is like nothing he has ever known. It's hellishly hot, too bright with searing sunlight and a kaleidoscope of colours calibrated for maximum retinal impact, everywhere from the hot pink hibiscus that grows wild, to the saturated purples, oranges and blues favoured by the locals as house colours (sometimes all at once), and music everywhere, pulsating through island life with an insidious reggae beat. Richard recalls that he actually felt ill from sensory overload for the first week of his time here.

Eventually, though, he begins to realise that if Saint-Marie is not London, nor are its residents Londoners. They greet each other by name in the street, remember what his preferred beverage is in the bar (in thirteen years of going to the White Hart, the publican there never knew what he drank), and go out of their way to accommodate him, even when he really doesn't deserve it. One of his more frequently visited memories is of the roast beef dinner that Catherine had arranged for him, not long after he had arrived, and was struggling to cope with the alarming results of the change in his meat-and-three-veg diet to the more adventurous local cuisine. It had been a hospitable gesture, but more than that, it had been kind. Richard has received very little kindness in his life, but he still recognises it when it is extended to him.

The Honoré police force, for its part, has tolerated his eccentricities, accepted his oddities, and generally treated him with nothing less than respect and camaraderie, which is what makes this sudden dismissal so much the worse for Richard now. He sees his former life for what it really was, a small, starkly single existence, and it fills him with despair at its loneliness and isolation._ What has happened to me? _he wonders, and the answer comes in one word. _Camille._

Richard heaves a long sigh, and feels the urgent need of a drink before continuing his introspection on that particular subject. He gets up, causing a momentary panic amongst the feathered intruders (one roosting on his bedrail, the other two investigating the foraging possibilities of the kitchen floor) before they realise that he is ignoring them, a reaction completely unlike the usual energetic expulsion they have come to expect. As he retrieves a beer from the fridge, Richard catches sight of his reflection in the little mirror installed over the kitchen sink (his theory is that the previous occupant used to shave there, a habit he considers both repulsive and unhygienic, necessitating the copious use of disinfectant and boiling water before he could bring himself to wash up so much as a teaspoon). He stops to stare at his reflection, trying to see himself as others must see him, as uncertain and unsure as any teenager about his appearance. _Well, maybe if I didn't look as if I was constantly on the simmer like a lobster in a pot…this wretched heat! Why am I wearing a collar and tie at home, anyway?_

Impulsively, he loosens his tie and undoes the top three buttons of his shirt, then removes the tie altogether and untucks his shirt, all the way around. Next he toes off his shoes and peels off his socks, wincing as his bare feet come into contact with the slightly sandy floorboards. Richard is locked in a war of attrition against sand – he assiduously evicts it daily, and the wind laughingly blows it back, through every nook and cranny in the old dwelling. He has not yet admitted defeat, though, because he hates the feel of sand on his bare skin. Gritting his teeth, he chooses to ignore it for once, instead stooping to roll up the bottom four inches of his trousers, turns back his shirt cuffs and steps back to contemplate Tropical Richard in the mirror. _Oh hell, if I just wore a hanky knotted at each corner on my head, I wouldn't look out of place at the annual churchwardens' outing to Bognor Regis, circa 1950_. Still, he has to admit he feels considerably cooler, so he moves on to a closer inspection of his face.

It's not much of a face, when he considers its progenitors. His mother, a willowy, cool blonde in the style of Grace Kelly, her finely chiselled beauty intimidating in its perfection; or his father's bold features and square jawline proclaiming that here was a man who knew what he was about_. I wish I could say the same,_ he thinks, running his hand over his face and back through his fine, light brown hair, now really starting to thin. _Oh yes, I'm a real catch!_ He knows he could be in better shape for his age and occupation, but the unremitting heat of Saint-Marie is not exactly conducive to exercise (which he loathes, anyway). As for height, he believes that five foot nine is about average, but neither of his parents can understand how he turned out to be shorter than both of them. It's yet another way in which he has disappointed them. His gaze next falls upon his startlingly white feet, pale against the dark floorboards. To his great embarrassment, his mother used to lament the fact that he had "feet like a duck" instead of her own, which were slim and elegant, as she bought his school shoes each year. The shop assistant would nod patiently at his mother's observations on the failings of her son's feet, then fetch the only style available in a G fitting, horrid brown square-toed clodhoppers that were never in fashion at his school, where most of the boys had bench-made shoes from Bond St. Richard rises up on tiptoe to see what difference the extra few inches of height makes.

Not a lot, he concludes, and drops back onto his heels. As for everything else between his feet and his beltline, he prefers not to think about that at all. His legs are fine, he supposes, in the sense that they keep him upright and move him from Point A to Point B in a generally reliable manner. But as for the rest of it…his mind skitters away, focusing on his hands instead. He holds one up for closer inspection, looks at it front and back, then catches sight of the little green lizard, perching on the kitchen bench and looking at him quizzically. "I don't suppose lizards ever feel self-conscious, or awkward, or inadequate, or as if they don't quite belong with all the other lizards, do they? They just get on with the business of being a lizard." The lizard bobs its head impatiently, and Richard smiles ruefully. "Sorry mate, I haven't done the shopping lately. All out of fruit and cat food, I'm afraid." He realises it is getting late – the sun has set while he has been lost in his thoughts and memories, and usually he would have set out a plate of food for his tiny housemate hours ago. The lizard flicks its tail in dismissal and skims along the bench and up the wall to the windowsill, where it disappears with a final glimmer of iridescent green. Richard feels suddenly disconsolate, as if he has seen the little creature for the last time. He turns away from the kitchen to carry his rapidly warming beer back to his favourite chair, and comes to an abrupt stop; his mouth opens and closes a couple of times, but no sound emerges. _Camille…_


	7. Chapter 7

Camille is standing in the doorframe as he has seen her stand a hundred times, collecting him for work, or coming in for a drink with the boys to celebrate the end of a case, but there is no sense of ease or familiarity now. She is dressed in a narrow black suit, her hair tamed into a French braid, wearing what even he can recognise as a pair of very expensive heels. Her eye travels over him from head to foot as he stands there, and he wishes the floor would open and swallow him. Finally, she speaks, her tone coolly ironic. "So, it's true, then. You have finally lost it. I had to come and see for myself, the great DI Richard Poole refusing to go to work, and what do I find? You, wandering around your house in a state of déshabille, talking to a lizard." Richard blinks, still processing the fact of her sudden appearance. In a voice that cracks with shock, he protests, "But you're in Paris!" Camille shrugs, then turns away to look out at the shore, pale and grey in the light of the rising moon. "I only got as far as Basse Terre yesterday. There is a baggage handlers' flash strike in France _(how very French! _part of Richard's brain notes), so international flights are suspended at present."

Richard joins her on the veranda, having unrolled his trousers, and re-buttoned his shirt – but he daringly leaves the tie off, his sleeves turned back, and his shirt untucked. He considers, then rejects, the idea of putting footwear back on, and instead picks his way over the sandy decking outside to stand a few feet away from Camille, also looking out into the night. "Errm, right. H...how did you know about that?" he asks tentatively, before answering his own question, with "Fidel?" She nods once, not looking at him. "I'll kill him!" Richard mutters under his breath, as Camille turns to look at him warningly. "You should know better than to make threats like that, Detective Inspector. You never know who might be listening." Her voice is humourless, and something inside Richard breaks as he hears it. _Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb_, he decides, and drawing a shaky breath, asks softly, "Camille, why are you here? You didn't really come back because of something Fidel said, did you?" She glances at him, then looks back out at the dark water ebbing along the shore. "No. I need something from you, and I think this is the only way I am going to get it".

His heart lurches against his ribs in terrified anticipation as he wonders what she could possibly want from, or with, him. No-one has ever wanted him for anything before. Before he can ask what it is, she turns to look at him full-on, and her beauty takes his breath away. _She is stunning_, he thinks, _but she's not happy, not at all happy._ "Closure" is her next word, and it leaves him gaping at her in incomprehension. "I don't, I don't quite understand," he falters. Camille breathes out sharply, impatient at his inability to grasp what she is talking about. "I need to move on, Richard. I can't do this…thing…any more. It's killing me." He just stares at her, and she wonders if she has inadvertently spoken to him in French, so she repeats herself in English. He blinks rapidly, then passes a hand over his face in a gesture so familiar it makes her heart skip a beat. "I heard you the first time, it's just that I don't know what to say. What 'thing' are you referring to?" and now her blood is up, she's properly angry, _how stupid can one man be? _Camille lunges forward, grabbing a fistful of his shirt so he can't retreat in alarm, and in a voice husky with emotion says, "THIS thing! Can you feel your heart racing now? Are your knees suddenly weak? You can't think straight? Maybe you're feeling dizzy? That's what I'm talking about. THIS!" She shoves him backwards in frustration, her palm flat against his heart, and she feels it hammering under her hand as if he has just run miles.

_He'll be lucky if he's not having a heart attack after that little move,_ she observes, seeing his dilated pupils, his fast shallow breathing, and his face twisted into a rictus of shock. He slumps onto the veranda railing, clutching the wood with both hands as he tries to regain control. A few minutes pass in silence, only the soft ebb and flow of water in the background proving to him that the world has not, in fact, suddenly ended, and then Richard pushes himself off the railing, staggers inside and collapses into his chair. He doesn't look at her, choosing to concentrate on his tightly clasped hands instead, as he very quietly asks, "How do you know about that?" Camille crosses to him in a couple of strides, sits in the chair opposite, and with a long sigh she confesses, "Because I feel the same way."

Startled green looks into deep brown, as Richard's eyes meet hers in mute astonishment. Her gut twists at the great flare of innocent hope and dawning joy she sees in their clear depths as her words sink in. This is not going to be easy, and so she says the next bit fast, before she loses her nerve completely, blinded by the light which is suddenly shining from his eyes. "So, there it is, all our deep dark secrets revealed. So silly, really, I mean, you're my boss, and ten years older, and so…so English!" she speaks lightly, "no wonder we fight like cat and hound (_dog_, the small part of Richard's brain still capable of normal function insists, _it's cat and dog_)…I don't know, the heat you're always moaning about must have finally gotten to me!" Camille shakes her head and laughs, the sound rippling through the night air. _Just keep it together, _she wills herself._ Keep up the façade like you've done a thousand times on undercover ops. I can make him believe anything, if I really try… He's not capable of returning my feelings, he didn't even seem to want me to sit down at his table the other night, when I made that stupid mistake – he was just being polite, for once…_Camille steels herself for the outburst she feels sure is coming, as she watches the emotions flit across Richard's face: shock, hope, confusion and then, unutterable sadness, as her last words sink in.

Richard's head feels as if it might implode, as he tries to catch up with Camille's train of thought, now rapidly accelerating away from Poole Halt. _Right_, he tells himself, _so she said she was here for something called closure and she's not talking about our strike rate at work. She's blown my most private thoughts wide open, she's just admitted that she has… feelings…for me, and now she's treating these extraordinary revelations as if they're nothing, nothing at all. Like it's all some sort of joke. But she said she felt the same way too...I don't know what's going on, but this sick feeling is exactly how I knew that Laddie was truly dead, that my parents really didn't care whether I was happy at school or not, and that Doug Anderson had turned the whole division against me… _

Camille sees pain and misery cloud Richard's eyes, and she knows that his quick mind has started to put the evidence together, to build the case against her. _Finish the job,_ she thinks, _and run._ He finally speaks, and his shaky, hesitant voice is worse than all the enraged shouting in the world. "I…I don't understand, Camille. Are you making fun of me? What you said, about…feeling the same way, was that true, or were you just paying me back for something I don't even know I did? I'm, I'm not experienced with women, I don't know how this all works, but I do know what it feels like to be treated like a freak, or a joke, and I would never have thought it of you." His voice breaks towards the end, and Camille's heart contracts in shame at what she is doing to him.

She reminds herself that this is for the best for them both, the only way she can see to break this intolerable deadlock. "Oh, Richard, don't be so serious about everything! It's simple _(it's anything but, _he thinks in disbelief) – don't you see? We're co-workers, together all the time, there's bound to be a bit of tension there, that's just what happens between men and women, but it doesn't mean anything (_I'm going to burn in Hell for the lies I'm telling tonight,_ she thinks in despair), just that this island is too small, and that we've seen too much of each other, and not enough of other people. I'm looking for so much more out of life than being a DS in my hometown, and I need to get off this island to find it. You want to get back to London too, so you must know how it is." she replies, striving to keep her tone light. She gets up and gathers her bag, ready to depart. Richard is looking at her as if she is a stranger, or worse, the prime suspect in a particularly heinous murder. If she's being honest, she feels as if she has killed something rare and fragile – Richard's trust in her, and their friendship. "Well, _au revoir, _Richard. It has been an experience, hasn't it, you and me on Saint-Marie." Camille holds out her hand for him to shake, but he ignores it, huddled into himself, staring at the floor, arms wrapped protectively around his body, sitting still as a mouse when the cat's eye is on it. Finally, she turns to leave, her heart aching.

**A/N: Did I mention, this is a very LONG fuse?**


	8. Chapter 8

…and sees a broad, bare foot, pale in the moonlight, suddenly appear in front of her, then another. Richard, stiff with nerves and apprehension, is standing directly before her, eyes searching her face; when she tries to feint around him to reach the stairs from the veranda, he wordlessly moves to block her path. "Please, Richard, let me go," she tries half-heartedly, and he shakes his head, before slowly reaching for her hand. His surprisingly warm fingers wrap lightly around her wrist, and there it is, the "_aha!"_ expression she knows so well, lighting up his face as the final pieces of the mystery fall into place.

His eyes lock onto hers as he feels her pulse pounding faster beneath his fingers, betraying her lies. "C..ca…Camille," he stammers her name hoarsely, "the thing that would kill me is to lose you again...I couldn't bear it…" She sees the truth in his face, and it stuns her. No one has ever looked at her like this in her life, and the sheer intensity of that glowing green gaze is unnerving. She has wanted this, hoped for this, for over a year, but the reality is nothing like her fantasies. This is real, and raw, and completely new for him, and she knows that she will have to navigate these uncharted waters very carefully. Her heart bounds against her ribcage as she realises that this is Richard, here in the moonlight with her, and that against all odds, he is reaching for her at last.

**Two minutes earlier…**

Richard has now experienced almost forty-eight hours without Camille, which means forty-eight hours of hell, and he feels that he would rather die than sit here and watch her leave forever. To him, she is the difference between living and existing, between night and day, between happiness and despair. So how can she just discard everything they have become to each other over the past year? He huddles into himself, trying to hold the broken pieces of his soul together…_Camille, oh, Camille_…Again, all the loneliness, disappointment, and hurts of his life rise around him like Job's comforters, but nothing will ever comfort him again…he stifles a sob, feels treacherous tears welling, can't breathe past the tightness in his throat…and then, lightning strikes, that same moment of grace which comes to him when he cracks a case._ It's all wrong, _he thinks,_ something's off…_and finally he remembers._ Her dilated pupils when she looked at me, the sudden fluttering of the tiny pulse in her throat as she told me good-bye, the way she couldn't quite meet my eyes as she denied her feelings…_she's lying, he realises_, just like I've seen thousands of suspects lie to me in the interview room. The only true thing she has said all night is that she feels the same way too…why would she lie? Why would she do that? _

In another flash of insight, Richard recalls the dreams and events of the last two days, Camille's expectant face, looking at him from across the table at La Kaz, before realising her mistake and leaving in confusion and embarrassment; his own agony that night as, from the shadows, he watched her greeting another man; the stinging words she had thrown at him the next day, and the sudden, sickening shock of her departure; the nightmare of being choked and swallowed by a python with his own face; the Commissioner's harsh words of dismissal – "I'm sick of your tics, your quirks, your peculiarities,"; Catherine telling him that Camille had been very unhappy, and looking at him as if it was all his fault; the stark solitude of his London life remembered, which now filled him with dread and despair…Camille's face tonight as she said "Because I feel the same way"… his heart beneath her hand, surging at her touch until he thought it would burst. Reaching further back, he again hears Camille's words to William the butler, words that had terrified him at the time, but which he now realises were only her way of letting Richard know she saw the truth of him, too.* Under the weight of such overwhelming evidence, the inescapable conclusion he reaches is that it's all down to him, Richard Poole, to make a momentous choice. _Live, or die. Take a huge risk, or shrivel up safely. Face the future, or drown in the past_…_Faint heart ne'er won fair lady, Poole! DO something or she's gone for good_…and then he was on his feet, running for the door. _Camille!_

Camille is determined not to cry, she is too proud and too strong. She tells herself as she turns towards the door, _I'm Detective Sergeant Camille Bordey, I have been shot twice, I have three commendations for bravery, and I am going to join the __Sûreté__ in Paris. This is for the best…I will not cry over this strange Englishman who has somehow wormed his way into my heart, I will not!_ She does not look back, feeling sick at the memory of her final sight of him, still and silent, arms wrapped protectively around his body, staring fixedly at the floor…and then, she sees a broad, bare foot, pale in the moonlight, followed by another. _Richard!_

**Now…**

Camille delicately extracts her hand from his gentle touch, and gathers her wits for a last-ditch effort at rational thought. If he is finally changing the game, then she will play for keeps; but she needs to be sure that he understands what's at stake here. "Richard, look at me. You don't even like to be touched, you cover every inch of your skin as if you're afraid you will accidentally brush up against something nasty, you spend all your time in your head…it's why you are so good at what you do, but me, I'm tactile, I'm physically affectionate…I live in my body, experiencing life through all my senses…" She trails off at the confused look in his eyes, and impatiently, she says, "I'll show you what I mean."

To Richard's astonishment, she takes his hand, turning it over so that the soft skin on the inside of his wrist is uppermost, and gently blows on the skin exposed by his turned-back shirt cuff until goose-bumps appear, each hair standing erect in response to the feeling of air moving over his skin. He draws in a sharp breath, quivering beneath the touch of her breath as if it is fire and ice combined. When she looks back at him, Richard appears to have gone completely rigid and stopped breathing altogether, and his eyes are closed. He is feeling things he would never have thought possible, in places he has never felt them before, from the simple sensation of her breath on a square inch of his skin…_erotic_, is the only word to describe it, he thinks, with the few cognitive neurons left which have not been taken over to process all the new sensory inputs his long-denied body is currently flooding his central nervous system with. _This is…wonderful! Agggh…don't stop!_

Richard feels her eyes on him, watching for his reaction, and opens his own, smiling shakily at her. "Welcome to my world," she says, and he holds out his other hand to her, inner wrist exposed. "More," he gasps, his voice roughened with arousal, his eyes pleading, "more." Camille smiles to herself at his awakening ardour as she takes his hand and leads him back inside. _Yes, I am going to enjoy this, _she thinks, then as she begins to feel the strain of her self-restraint, _and so is he…_

**A/N: So, will it be worth the wait? More soon...and thanks to all who are hanging on for dear life during the unfolding of this fic...and reading and reviewing at the same time!**

*** If you're curious about why what Camille said to the murderous butler in ep. 2.1 terrified Richard, please read my other DiP fic, Under the Skin for the answer.**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Penultimate chapter…thanks to everyone who has stuck with this fic, chewing their nails and glaring at me while very kindly continuing to read and review!**

They stand, facing each other in the moonlight which is flooding the room through every window and door, and the silence between them is as charged as the air before a tropical storm. Richard thinks he has never seen her look more beautiful, but somehow severe, and out of reach, in her tailored suit. With hands that shake, he reaches out and carefully slides her jacket off her shoulders. Camille lets it fall to the floor, unheeded. Next, he raises one hand cautiously, as if to touch her hair, then halts midway, letting his arm drop back to his side, but the searching look in his eyes tells her that he is looking for the Camille he has known for the last year, the Camille who wears shorts and strappy tops to work, the Camille who kicks her bare feet up onto the edge of her desk, not this Parisienne vision of Camille, all couture and Christian Louboutin. Swiftly, she unbraids her hair, shaking it loose and running her fingers through the curly mass of hair which springs free. Richard's eyes are wide and dark with want as she pulls her sleeveless cream silk camisole free of the waistband of her slim black skirt, leaving it to hang free, and steps out of her heels with a heartfelt sigh of relief. She looks at him and asks, "Better?" He nods, struggling to force words out of his suddenly tight, dry throat, almost whispering, "Um, you could have kept the shoes on…" then his gaze drops to the floor in embarrassed contrition.

Camille rolls her eyes (_Men! He's not so very different, then,_ she notes with interest) and turns her attention to what he is wearing. First, she very deliberately unbuttons his long-sleeved shirt, while he stands before her like a lamb before its shearer, trembling in delight at the inadvertent touches of her fingers against his skin as she works on the buttons. When she has finished this task, Camille next slides her hands inside his open shirt, slowly gliding them together from his navel up to his chest, before slipping around to his sides and running her fingers lightly down his ribcage as his body heaves and shudders beneath her touch, his hands clenched into fists as he fights for control. Playfully, she moves her hands back up to his shoulders, and he draws a ragged breath, eyes closed tight, as she drags her nails gently across his quivering back with a feathery movement. _This is the most exquisite torment_, Richard thinks, semi-coherently, and _I never, ever, want it to stop. Ohhh…Camille!_

Camille considers her next move very carefully. _It's the only way_, she decides. It's the only way to break through a lifetime's training of emotional reserve and physical shyness which borders on the ridiculous, like a character out of a particularly moral Victorian novel. Camille has always preferred the more realistic, sensual French writers' approach, with their portrayal of the infinite array of human behaviour, from the innocent to the erotic. She is deeply moved by how profoundly their simple skin-on-skin contact is affecting him. _It's as if no one has ever touched him before…_Camille feels physically ill at the idea of someone living without the warmth of human affection; casual hugs between friends, the sense of belonging which a lover's caress bestows, or the unconditional love of a parent's embrace. She feels, too, the coiled tension beneath her fingers, his muscles bunching as she barely brushes his skin with her fingertips…_pattes d'araignée_. Deep in her belly, a familiar ache is beginning to make its presence felt, but tonight she is willing to wait, even though she wants him so badly she can hardly think straight. Tonight, she is going to break him out of the prison of his own body, or die trying.

"I have an idea", she tells him, and his eyes flutter open at the sound of her voice. "Mmphm?" is all he can manage, as she takes his hand and tows him, unresisting, towards the bed. "Sit", she instructs him, and like a small child, he sits obediently, looking up at her. His face is trusting and open, his eyes shining with adoration and excitement. Camille hitches her skirt up slightly so she can kneel on the bed beside him, and the raw desire that washes across his face as she does so is almost enough to change her mind, but she schools herself to patience with the force of long habit where he is concerned. He has indicated his willingness to let her take the lead, recognising that in this, she is his superior…so she whispers, _take off your shirt, and I'll show you_, and with a flurry of movement, the garment hits the floor.

Camille's breath catches in her throat as she looks at Richard, his white skin silvered by moonlight, his green eyes gleaming like a cat's, and then she reaches towards him. With infinite care, she holds her hands just above his skin, near enough to feel the fine hairs beneath her fingertips, yet not quite touching him, and begins to move her hands over every inch of his exposed skin, tracing a trail of fire as she ghosts her hands across his body, leaving each tiny hair standing on end, and all his nerve endings alight with ecstasy. He moans in pleasure as she moves lower, breathing fast and deep at the extraordinary sensations Camille is creating within him; he reaches for her, but she wriggles away, telling him, "This is your turn," and then she is unbuckling his trousers, tugging them off, to continue her fingertip search of the skin of his flanks, his back, his legs, and his feet as he lies on his front, now wearing only his trunks.

Richard ceases to think, or to do anything other than to submit to the waves of pleasure washing over him as Camille's hands go where they will. He feels twenty years younger as she accepts him completely as he is, thinning hair, fish-belly paleness, little potbelly and all. For reasons he has yet to fathom, this glorious goddess appears to want him every bit as much as he so ardently wants her. And speaking of wanting…he heaves himself up onto one elbow and turns his torso to look at her, still dressed, kneeling beside him, smiling as she hovers her hands over the small of his back, triggering ever more urgent sensations, sensations that cannot be ignored much longer, if the tumult he is feeling is anything to go by. He hisses through his teeth as she moves her hands around to his soft stomach, now exposed in his new, semi-supine position. _She'll be the end of me…ahhh…ahhhh…_

He is familiar with his body's warning signs, if only in _those_ dreams (dreams he has been having with increasing regularity ever since arriving on Saint-Marie, to his initial fear and consternation), but he has never been able to bring himself to do what all the other boys in his school used to talk about endlessly, boasting crudely about whose was bigger, whose was longer, whose went_ further_…he had fled such scenes in horror, and hidden in the library. Once, when he was about twelve, he had with great trepidation crept to the back of the Biology stacks, and found a book on how babies were made; the things he had learned that day had haunted him for decades afterwards. _It all seemed so, well, unlikely, not to mention unhygienic, and just plain strange_, he had thought at the time, _like sticking your finger into someone else's eye_. Now, he feels that he would quite like to find out for himself. _With Camille, and soon … very, very soon_. He looks at her pleadingly, and she sits back, watching him for a moment - _time to switch focus_, she realises – and leans towards him.

Richard had intended to begin with a peck on the cheek (this being the only kiss he has had any kind of experience with), but Camille, sensing his uncertainty, moves first, taking his face between her hands and kissing him softly on the lips. His response is tentative at first, and then it is as if the mains switch is flipped inside him for the first time in his life, flooding his body with a whole new kind of sensation and excitement. Rolling over to embrace Camille, his arms encircle her tightly, and she can feel him trembling as she returns his kiss with passionate tenderness. Richard finally breaks off for air, but he doesn't release his hold around her waist. "I have wanted to do that from the first moment I saw you in the cells, wearing nothing but that old shirt and a bikini," he tells her delightedly, before resuming his attentions, hands sliding up her back as his lips meet hers and then their mouths open, deepening the kiss. For Camille, it's as if she is sixteen again, kissing a boy for the first time, so pure yet passionate is their connection. This time the embrace goes on until she becomes aware that parts of him are responding in ways that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore, and this time, it is she who ends it. He groans in disappointment and she can see his eyes are glazing over with arousal. "I'd call that closure," she tells him as she sits up. He looks at her, rendered almost speechless by the most incredible five minutes of his life to date, and gives her his trademark crooked grin. "Really? I'd say it was more of a beginning".

Camille knows she can no longer resist the temptation which has built slowly over the last year. She feels as if she is nothing more than a bonfire piled high with dry tinder, and this kiss is the final spark which has sent the flame of her long-suppressed desire roaring through the kindling; she decides that she is going to do something she very much wants, after all. "My turn," she says…


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: This chapter definitely earns its M rating! But then, Richard has earned it, too…**

Tonight has been nothing short of a revelation for Richard; he still feels Camille's intolerably light touches all over his body, awakening his long-repressed senses, accepting him unconditionally, and leaving her mark scorched upon his soul like an indelible brand. He cannot remember ever having felt so alive, so present in the moment, nor so…_ well, horny, is the only word for it._ _Everything has been leading up to this_, Richard thinks wildly as Camille slowly removes her camisole, revealing her flat stomach, edging her way up until he can bear the suspense no longer: lunging upright in the bed, he whisks it over her head and drops it on the floor next to his discarded shirt, _so why am I suddenly so afraid?_ He is unable to take his eyes from her body as Camille shimmies out of her skirt; she smiles at his wide-eyed reaction to seeing her in nothing more than her lingerie, cream silk chiffon against the honeyed satin of her skin, her hair a dark halo in the moonlight as she kneels next to him. She sees his gaze settle, fascinated, on her breasts, and his yearning look only increases the answering ache she feels deep inside.

Like a little boy who has had good manners drilled into him through a long and painful process, Richard shyly asks, "Can I…_may_ _I _touch them?" In answer, Camille removes her flimsy brassiere with a flick of her wrist, sending it to join the growing pile of garments next to the bed, noting with satisfaction the instant change in his breathing as he sees her nearly naked. "You'd better," she replies in a mock-serious tone, and reaching for his nearest hand, she places it over her thumping heart, then squeaks in protest as his fingers reflexively clench around her small, sensitive breast…"Gently,"she whispers to him, seeing nervous anxiety flicker in his eyes, and demonstrates, "like this,_" _as she shows him how lightly brushing his nipple with her thumbnail causes it to harden, causes his blood to pulse in his groin, causes his breath to hitch in response…_Ohhh…Camille…_

Richard carefully replicates her delicate touch as he begins his exploration of Camille's body; her warm skin beneath his hands, like living silk as she leans into his first tentative caresses, which rapidly become more confident as she responds to him; the endless smoothness of her legs and back, the tautness of her stomach as his hands travel upwards. Daringly, he darts his tongue out to touch her nipples, and she arches her body towards him with a moan that sends shivers through him. _Extraordinary, that I can have that sort of effect on her…_ Richard thinks her nipples swelling at his touch is the most amazing thing he has felt in his entire life, until he discovers that her breasts fit exactly into the hollows of his palms, and that he is able to cup them like an offering to Erzulie, kissing Camille's throat as she throws her head back, panting with pleasure, while he continues his journey until he comes to rest between her breasts.

Her breathing as he does so is the most erotic thing he has ever heard, and he forces himself to focus on sensing her body and pleasuring her, instead of being overcome by the rising need of his own. He moves his hands outwards, sliding them down her sides till they find the curve of her hips, and he likes the feeling of soft skin, then hard bone beneath his fingers so much that he repeats this movement again and again until she is undulating between his hands, thrusting up to meet them as he brings his palms together over her belly, then inches them downwards. Camille draws a long, steadying breath, and then huskily says "Stop." Richard removes his hands as if she is made of fire, thinking he has done something wrong. "We should talk," she tells him, and he looks at her in confusion and apprehension. _She knows_, he realises in panic, _she knows I'm a virgin. Oh, Camille._

He flushes with shame and looks away, until he feels her hand against his cheek, gently turning his face to look at her. In her dark eyes, there is a world of emotions swirling; arousal _(I did that!_ some very adolescent part of his brain cheers), compassion, affection, and something else, something he has never seen before, which makes him lightheaded. "Richard, are you sure about this?" she asks, choosing her words with care, "I mean, are you sure you're ready_?" I've been waiting for this my whole life, _he thinks, _only I didn't know it. I didn't know how wonderful a relationship with a woman could be, until I met Camille. _Outwardly, he nods in response, but she shakes her head. He glances downwards, and looks at her incredulously; _can't she see how _very_ ready I am?_ Camille allows herself a tiny smile at his bemusement, then continues with, "I don't mean emotionally, or physically, I mean... psychologically. I know this is all new, Richard, but we're talking about the most intimate act one person can commit with another. It's intense in every way, sometimes frighteningly so, it's not always perfect, especially not at first, it's raw, it's messy…I need to know that you can handle the reality. This isn't a nice neat puzzle to solve on your own, this is us, being together, becoming one." She takes a deep breath and watches his face as her words sink in. "How did you know?" he asks softly, and she raises one eyebrow, her expression saying, _Oh please, this is me you're talking to! _before replying, "Feminine intuition,' in a tone of amused affection.

In truth, Richard has very little idea of what to expect; the book he had read as a twelve year old was more concerned with the product rather than the process, and thanks to his innate sense of honour and decency, he finds all the other usual sources of such imagery and information deeply disturbing, if not downright degrading. In his secret, innermost heart, buried beneath his empirical, cynical outlook, Richard is an old-fashioned romantic, and the blatant sexuality of the world around him frightens and distresses him greatly. Camille's easy grace and physical confidence is enormously attractive to him, but more than that, he loves her kindness and sensitivity; he feels safe with her, in a way that no other human being has ever been able to make him feel…and how she has made him feel tonight is almost indescribable. For once, he is lost for words.

Richard draws his knees up, wrapping his arms around himself as he sits facing Camille. _She's right,_ he admits, _from here on out it's all a bit of a mystery to me, but I do know there's nothing I want more than to_ _feel her all around me, looking the way she did just now… her body responding to mine…to belong to her, and know she belongs to me…Camille!_ She sees the fierce need on his face, the tension in every line of his body, the way his chest is rising and falling as he struggles for self-control in her nearly naked presence, and she makes the decision for them, her own pent-up desire finally winning out over her native caution at becoming involved with this difficult, brilliant, childish, pedantic, yet somehow untouched and oddly innocent man. Camille also knows Richard is gentle, vulnerable, and shy; these are the qualities which first attracted her, and which she finds incredibly sexy. She has been with more experienced men, men who were confident and polished lovers, and she found them to be both overly self-regarding, and distinctly dull outside the boudoir. She has no such reservations about Richard, who is the most unusual, interesting and intelligent person she has ever met. She has always felt that beneath that awkward, uptight exterior is a deeply passionate man, but she knows, too, that only Richard can free himself from his unhappy past and the repressed loneliness of his life. With that thought, Camille rises to her knees in front of him, giving him a clear view of her slender body, and beckons him to her, holding her breath…_is he brave enough? _She certainly hopes so.

He moves so swiftly she doesn't see him get up from his huddled position; all she knows is that he is suddenly there, crushing her body to his in an ardent embrace which sets her ablaze as he bears her backward, down to the soft mattress beneath, kissing her clumsily in his hunger and haste, saying her name like a prayer. Camille throws her arms around him, growling her excitement at feeling his hardness against her, and then she hears fabric shredding under his hands; he is too drunk, now, on testosterone and the musky scent of her arousal, to think of simply taking her knickers off; but he stops, awestruck, to look at her naked body in all its beauty. She quivers as he touches her _there_ in wonder, his hands shaking. "Again," she demands hoarsely, and so he repeats the movement, watching her reaction with fascination as he increases the speed and pressure, until she detonates beneath his hands with a low, gut-wrenching cry he that feels in every nerve of his newly awakened body, her hips bucking uncontrollably; he is in awe at the strength and intensity of her response. Richard has a stunning _Aha!_ moment, realising that, astonishingly, Camille truly does want him just as much as he wants her_…that was bloody fantastic! _he marvels, as she goes limp and mutters something in French.

Richard is just wondering what he might try next, when Camille's eyes open lazily, regarding him in the same way he imagines a hungry lioness might look at a wounded gazelle, and then her nimble fingers are working frantically to free him from his trunks, which go flying to the floor as he kicks them off, shielding himself shyly with his hands; she gently prises them away to tease him momentarily, with a spiralling, feather-light touch that sets him quivering, until he rasps "Please," in a voice that makes Camille shiver as he finally moves between her legs. She is more than ready for him; she has been ready since his first shuddering response to her touch upon his bare skin. With her hands on the small of his back, Camille steadies and guides him, and then she tilts up her hips in invitation and welcome, breathing _Yes_ as with a sharp intake of breath, Richard enters a secret world of surprising slickness and heat, her muscles gripping him _everywhere_; her hands on his body, and her breasts tantalisingly close beneath him. Incredibly intense feelings swirl through him; the transition from the balmy night air to Camille's tight, wet heat shocks him, but not as much as the realisation that she is moving with him; he has never envisaged a partner taking an active role, and the newly acquired knowledge that it is not all up to him is somehow comforting as he takes his first steps into this brave new world. He is shaken to the core by the emotional vulnerability and physical intensity of looking into Camille's eyes, and seeing his own need and desire mirrored in her face as they move together.

_Am I doing it right? Is this OK?_ he wonders, too engulfed in the experience to actually speak, and is reassured by the sights and sounds of Camille's appreciation; her eyes glowing, her body answering his own, the thrill of her throaty noises of pleasure…_I want this to go on forever! _Camille allows him to set the pace, understanding that he is too aroused and his need is too overpowering to do anything more than act instinctively; so she encourages him on with words and actions, determined that his first time is one he will remember for the rest of his life. _And mine_, she thinks, as he begins to move more strongly within her, _and mine…_Camille feels the familiar surging of a certain kind of pressure building again, deep in her belly, and redoubles her efforts.

_Too soon, oh, too soon! _Richard thinks_,_ as he feels every muscle in his body suddenly lock, his head snap back, his breathing grow laboured, and that particular tension which until now he has known only in dreams, before his rational mind goes blank, filling with sensations like electricity shooting through him from nape to knees with terrifying intensity; and then he simply…_explodes…_with pure physical pleasure and release. Camille arches beneath him as he cries out, then wraps her legs around his back and pulls him even deeper, seeking Richard's eyes with her own as he loses himself in her with a sound like a great tree being uprooted, collapsing breathlessly onto her sweat-sheened body, incandescent with triumph. Camille is still teetering on the edge, driven there by his sheer urgency; sliding her hand between their bodies, she swiftly joins him _in le petit mort,_ calling out his name as she has so often whispered it alone. Richard feels as if his soul has passed into Camille's keeping as he holds her tightly, listening to her breathing settle, telling her_ thank you thank you thank you thank you_, until she smilingly stops his mouth with a long and tender kiss. Too exhausted to move, they fall asleep, still entwined in each other, solid silver and molten bronze in the tropical moonlight.

**A/N: I did briefly toy with the idea of making this chapter into two, stopping at "She certainly hopes so," but I feared that any further suspense would not go down well with my readers…**

**Oh, and there is an epilogue in the offing…**


	11. Epilogue - Closure for One

Epilogue - Closure for One

**A/N: After much inner conflict over how to end this story (I had two quite different endings planned), I got a suggestion from MillionMoments which was so simple, it's brilliant – publish both, and let the readers decide which one they prefer. Here's the first ending, forthwith.**

In the silence of early dawn, before the sun has heaved itself out of the ocean once more, before the first fishermen have headed out of the lagoon, Camille wakes with a start. Something, somewhere, is making a muted buzzing sound…_that's my phone,_ she realises, and carefully disentangles herself from Richard's body, wrapped around hers like a child hugging a teddy bear. He is still fast asleep, but he mumbles something as she removes his hand from her stomach and slides her legs out from between his. Once free, she tiptoes across to the chair where she left her bag last night, locating her phone just in time to hear the soft two-tone chime which tells her the caller has left a voice message. Camille looks at the still-lit screen and sees she also has a text message from an unfamiliar number. It reads, _Paris strike over. International flights resuming. Your flight has been rescheduled. Please contact us urgently for more information – Air France. _

Frowning, she listens to her voicemail, which is a message from the Chopper Charters pilot she had cadged a lift back to Saint-Marie with last night, after she had been told in no uncertain terms by Fidel that the Chief needed her. "This is Jean-Luc, Sergeant Bordey, I'm flying back out to Guadeloupe in 45 minutes, if you want a lift, be at the airport by oh-six-hundred."Camille checks the time on her phone and swears under her breath – she has less than forty minutes. No-one else knows she has returned to Saint-Marie, and she's not sure that she wants them to. She stands in thought for a moment, turning the possibilities over in her mind.

Camille does not look at the sleeping figure in the bed behind her; she needs to approach this decision with a clear head. If she stays, she will be giving up the career opportunity of a lifetime; she knows all too well how rarely the Sûreté accepts officers of her background, and if she is completely honest with herself, she is tired of playing second fiddle to Richard, brilliant though he is. Camille wants more out of her career, and she has been dreaming of returning to the undercover work she loves, and which Richard had inadvertently brought to an abrupt close when he arrested her during the Charlie Hulme investigation. At the time she had been furious, not only that he had bumbled in at all, but that she had then been assigned to work with him, in what she could only assume was an especially bizarre quirk of the Commissioner's notably droll sense of humour. Some part of her has remained furious ever since, she realises, and she doubts it will ever change while she stays on Saint-Marie as the local girl who only made it to Detective Sergeant.

Before she can stop herself, Camille glances at Richard, curled on his side, vulnerable as he sleeps the all-in sleep of the newly sexually satiated, and her heart squeezes tightly at the idea of leaving him behind; but then a little voice whispers at the back of her mind, _If the shoe was on the other foot…He'd leave without a backward glance, if it meant he could go back to London…he never stops talking about it! And now he's finished here, I bet he can't wait to get home…_Camille had been very young when her father had left, and for a long time, she had believed that he had left because of her, that she must have done something very bad indeed to make Papa go away and never come back. As she grew older, with Catherine's careful explanations, she began to understand that in fact he had left them to go and be with someone else, to have another family, and she had vowed that she would never be anyone's second choice ever again. _Better to leave, than be left_, was her motto, and until now it had served her well.

Camille closes her eyes, thinking back over the night; how Richard had spoken her name with such raw need; how they had fitted perfectly together; how he had responded when she had first begun to touch him, and how he had made her feel in turn, and then she thinks of how much worse it would be have all that for a time, and then to lose it. Surely, the kindest thing would be for her to go now…Camille feels a great lump rising in her throat at the idea, then she remembers how she had felt for years after her father had left, and she thinks, _I cannot go through that again. I will not do it to myself. Best to get out now, before I'm lost completely. _With that thought, she quietly gathers her clothing, then impulsively picks up his shirt and buries her face in it, breathing the smell of him in once more – clean cotton, the subtle hint of spice in his aftershave which she loves, and beneath it all, his own particular scent; Richard, distilled. Her heart pounds with the remembrance of having that scent all around her, over her, her senses filled with him as they moved together…and then she tucks the shirt in her bag, pulls on her own clothing, and barefooted, steps out onto the veranda, where the first hot rays of dawn are beginning to stripe the floorboards with light, before turning for a last look at him through the open windows, still asleep, and naked as an egg.

Camille cannot bear the thought of trying to explain to Richard; more than that, she dreads the look in his eyes as he realises that she is leaving. _Well what would you have me do?_ she argues with him in her mind_, stay here stuck as your offsider for the rest of my life, or until you finally convince the Commissioner to send you back to London? I will never advance while you're the ranking officer, and if I did then how people would talk…it's because she's sleeping with him – I can hear the gossip in the marketplace now! Anyway, we all know that if the situation was reversed, you'd be off in a flash…_Camille is getting up steam now, and when the Richard in her mind says, _But what about last night? I thought…that is, we were…well…_she grits her teeth and tells him, _Last night was a gift. A farewell present, if you like…and I'm fairly certain that you did… _She steps off the veranda towards the little hire car she had asked Jean-Luc to commandeer for her last night at the airport, parked far up the track that leads down to the lagoon.

She will not cry, she is too proud and too strong. She tells herself, _I'm DS Camille Bordey, I have been shot twice, I have three commendations for bravery, and I am going to join the __Sûreté_ in Paris. I will not cry over this strange Englishman who has somehow wormed his way into my heart, I will not! Camille does not look back again, but marches straight to her car, gets in and drives off. She knows that in time she will get over this, and she hopes that he does, too. _It shouldn't take him too long, once I've gone_, she thinks with more confidence than she feels, suddenly queasy at the memory of her final sight of him, still asleep, a smile curving the corners of his mouth. _Oh, Camille…_his voice whispers in her mind once more, but she replies, _Au revoir, Richard…goodbye_, and starts the engine.

As Camille drives, the mobile phone on the seat next to her chirps in response to an incoming text message, and she glances at the backlit display and smiles as she recognises the French number. Philippe and Estelle, delighted she is returning to Paris at last. _Yes_, Camille thinks, _when one door closes, a window opens,_ _just as Maman always says_, and suddenly the future is somewhere she thinks that she quite wants to be. She pulls up at the airport helipad just in time to see Jean-Luc starting the rotors, and she runs to join him, afraid that if she doesn't go now, she never will.

From the air, Camille thinks, the island looks like a jewel, an emerald perhaps, set on a sea of blue enamel. That golden edge there, that's the lagoon beach…suddenly, the view before her blurs as she spots Richard's shack, tiny as a toy…the chopper swings North, over the endless expanse of water, and Camille finds that she can see again. "Big night, then?" the pilot asks her through her headset, and she smiles in reply. "Yes, the biggest."

Hours later, when the sun is high and heat shimmers on the lagoon beach, Richard wakes alone…_Oh, Camille…Camille…_

From its perch in the living-room tree, a small green lizard cocks its head inquisitively at the strange, strangled sounds coming loudly from the human huddled below. The sounds continue for a long time. Eventually, the human gets up, shuffles into the bathroom, re-emerges some time later wrapped in a towel, with a suitcase in hand, into which he hurls everything he owns. Next, the human extracts some clothing from the pile inside the suitcase, puts it on, hunts for that small flat black thing he is always looking at or talking to, and when he finds it he says "Departures, Saint-Marie to London. Yes, leaving today." The lizard turns, unseen, and glides up the tree trunk, back into the sun.


	12. Epilogue 2 - Closure for None

Epilogue – Closure for None

**A/N: After much inner conflict over how to end this story (I had two quite different endings planned), I got a suggestion from MillionMoments which was so simple, it's brilliant – publish both, and let the readers decide which one they prefer.**

**For those of you who are on the brink of reaching for the Xanax to soothe their worried minds re. Richard and Camille, here is the second ending… do be careful where you choose to read it though! (that would be code for M rating, coming up…)**

Hours later, as the sun is rising over the water, and heat is already shimmering on the lagoon beach, Richard wakes alone…_Oh, Camille…_ before he registers the sound of water humming through the makeshift plumbing, and realises that the shower is running. He rolls onto his back and stretches luxuriously, feeling a pleasant residual soreness in muscles never before used as he had used them last night. As a warm breeze moves across his bare body Richard thinks, _she was right, I should sleep naked in this heat_, and blushes as his febrile imagination conjures up vivid images of what Camille's suggestion might now entail for his future sleeping arrangements. Suddenly shy, he retrieves the top sheet and pulls it up to his chest, looks down at himself, frowns, and turns it down to his waist. He is amazed at the sense of well-being and relaxation that fills his whole being; he can't ever remember feeling this light and loose before, as if he was made out of something other than knotted, tense muscle and hard bones.

_Something more like…taffy_, he thinks, recalling the sweet shop he had loved to visit in Clacton as a child; it had been an old-fashioned establishment, still making most of its confections on the premises, and he had often stood at the window and watched saltwater taffy being made by its elderly American proprietor. The molten molasses mixture was poured onto a stone slab, and worked with a scraper into a shiny, semi-solid lump; then the proprietor would pull it out into a long, stringy mass until he could make a loop of it around a big iron hook set in the wall, and he would draw it out, looping it back on itself many times and pulling again and again with his buttered hands until it was light, smooth and pliable. The process had fascinated him, and now it seems the perfect metaphor for the way he is feeling. Richard has never given his body much thought, seeing it primarily as an (often inconvenient and inefficient) way to transport his brain around; until last night, he had no idea of the sheer intensity of physical pleasure his body was capable of feeling, and suddenly, all sorts of human behaviours make sense to him for the first time. Holding hands, hugging, caressing, kissing…he feels truly alive for the first time in his adult life, and he knows he has Camille to thank.

A tiny frown gathers between his brows as he realises that Camille has been in the shower a very long time indeed – not that he minds if she uses every last drop of water to cleanse her spectacular self, but a nasty little thought has just occurred to him – _what if she just turned on the water to distract me, then walked out the door, instead? _Heart pounding, Richard bolts upright in bed…and then he hears her voice from the bathroom. "Richard? Did you pass your last medical?" He blinks at this _non_ _sequitur_ to his train of thought, and calls back, "Yes! May I ask why you are…"and then all words fail him at the vision which is before his disbelieving eyes….

Camille, straight from the shower, hair still in damp ringlets, is framed in the bathroom door, wearing nothing more than Richard's discarded shirt, buttons modestly done up, and her black, five-inch heels. Holding his wide-eyed gaze, she prowls towards him slowly, moving with the deadly grace of a jungle cat. As he struggles to get up, wondering vaguely why his arms and legs are refusing to co-operate, and yet his cardio-vascular system is working overtime, Richard's eyes grow still bigger as she reaches the edge of the bed and swings one long, slim leg over his body to straddle him, still in shirt and heels. Smiling at him in a way that terrifies yet elates him, she brings her body closer, until he can feel the heat emanating from her clean skin, smell the musky fragrance of her arousal, and see the pulse beating in her throat as she gazes into his eyes. "Richard," she whispers in a voice deepened by desire, and then he is lost in the sea of sensuality which swamps him. One by one, her nimble fingers undo the buttons on his (now forever hers) shirt, and with each unbuttoning, she leans forward to kiss him deeply, pushing him back against the pillows piled at the head of the bed, until the shirt is completely undone and he is semi-recumbent, her breasts inches from his face.

Sitting up, Camille lets the shirt slide off her shoulders. Until now, Richard has been too overwhelmed at the reality of seeing her here, nude, by daylight, _with him_, to be capable of doing anything other than watch her as a starving man would watch food approach; but as the shirt falls from her body, his hands rise as if by magic to stroke her hips and bottom, heading lower as her breath catches in response to his caresses. She knows he is ready; she can see it in the tenting of the sheet still draped across his lower body; and this morning she is in the mood for something a little more immediate than the long drawn-out build-up of the night before. She can see this wish reflected in his eyes, too – in the slightly unfocused way he is looking at her breasts, and then between her legs – _yes, still the same old Richard, still direct to the point of bluntness!_ she realises, and gasps as he suddenly discovers a new use for his thumb. She decides to act now, before he has her coming into his hands again, completely at his mercy.

Reaching behind, Camille whips the sheet off with one hand, and surprise flares in his green eyes, now dominated by huge pupils, quickly followed by a dawning realisation – _again! It's going to happen again! _Camille steadies herself with one hand against his chest, feeling his heart kicking under her hand like an unbroken colt, and with the other, she reaches for him, guiding herself until she is over him, until he can sense the heat radiating from her, mere millimetres away; the look of breathless anticipation on his face sets a pulse throbbing, low and insistent, in her groin. Looking into his eyes, she breathes his name again, and then cries _Allez!_ as with an involuntary upwards buck of his hips, Richard sheathes himself in her…Camille bears down on him in a single motion, with a positively wanton look on her face, and it is his turn to cry out as she begins to move, rising and falling as if she were on a trotting horse. Richard doesn't know where to look first at all the tantalising sights before him; at the play of muscles in her strong thighs as she rides him; or at the sheen of sweat breaking out all over her magnificent body; or at the frantically beating pulse at the base of her throat; or at her face, eyes half-closed in pleasure as she moves faster and harder; or at her firm, uptilted breasts, just within arm's reach, rising from the slender column of her body; so he looks at everything, and what he isn't looking at, he is touching, stroking, caressing, so that no part is overlooked in his worship of her. This time, Camille can see everything that is happening with Richard, and when she feels that he is close, she increases her pace, abandoning herself joyfully until pleasure first overtakes, and then overwhelms them both.

From Camille's bag, left last night on a chair, a muted buzzing sound rises like the noise of a bee in a bottle, but only a small, inquisitive green lizard hears it, from its perch high in the living room tree, and it scuttles down the trunk and towards the source of the noise, keeping a wary eye on the two humans, tangled together in the bed as if they were in fact one creature. To the lizard's disappointment, the noise is not coming from a fat insect trapped inside the bag, but from one of those small black flat things that humans always seem to be talking to or looking at. The interior of the bag is illuminated by an eerie blue light as a text message scrolls across the screen. It reads, _Paris strike over. International flights resuming. Your flight has been rescheduled. Please contact us urgently for more information – Air France. _The lizard bobs its head in annoyance, and returns to its arboreal vantage point, all the better to spot insects circling on the ceiling in the mid-morning heat.

Camille wakes with a start – _that's my phone! _but before she can extricate herself from bed (that is, from Richard, wrapped around her like a child hugging a teddy bear) he stirs and holds her tighter. "My phone," she begins, and gets no further before he rolls up onto his elbow and kisses her. "Let the damn phone ring for once," Richard says huskily as he begins to move down the length of her body, planting kisses that make her shiver as he goes, "we're on holiday." And she does. _Oh, Richard…ohhh! _

**A/N: and here we leave our hero and heroine, for the time being - I rather think they've earned it! Thanks again to everyone who has read, reviewed, encouraged, glared, made brilliant suggestions, chewed their nails, reached for the inhaler and generally come along (no pun intended!) on this angst-ridden rollercoaster ride. I would love to know which ending you preferred, too…although I think I can guess!**

**I have other stories for DiP I am currently working on, so I hope to see you all in DiP ficland again soon! – Airgead ;) **


End file.
